


Sugar, Butter, Flour

by nagdabbit



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Auditor Steve Harrington, Baker Billy Hargrove, Bakery, Billy Hargrove Being an Asshole, Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Cookies, Fluff, M/M, Mild Angst with a happy ending, Misunderstandings, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, boys being stubborn, heckin' cute shit, it's tax season baby, no beta we watched Stranger Than Fiction and had feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23125027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagdabbit/pseuds/nagdabbit
Summary: The second and third days continued much the same. He came in, took all their abuse and interference with a polite sort of defeat, and left looking a rumpled mess. He didn't snap at Tommy's teasing, or say anything about Carol messing his work as she hauled bags of flour passed and down from the storeroom. He did his job in silence, and then left.IRS Agent Steve is sent to audit Baker Billy. (Listen. Stranger Than Fiction is a great movie.)
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 17
Kudos: 157





	Sugar, Butter, Flour

**Author's Note:**

> Title: 'What's Inside' by Sara Bareilles from the Waitress musical.
> 
> Listen. I watched Stranger Than Fiction again and had feeling so I made it Stranger Things. I have no other excuse. Will Farrell said, "I brought you flours," ad then my hand slipped.

Billy had been getting more than a little annoyed by the time the end of the first day rolled around. Much more than. But Harrington wasn't all bad, he supposed. He was polite as he made his way out of the shop around 6, that first evening. He’d shown up that morning in a tidy, grey jacket, with a crisp collar and a neat, lavender tie. By the time he left, his hair was an artful mess, his knot was loose, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.

The second and third days continued much the same. He came in, took all their abuse and interference with a polite sort of _defeat_ , and left looking a rumpled mess. He didn't snap at Tommy's teasing, or say anything about Carol messing his work as she hauled bags of flour passed and down from the storeroom. He did his job in silence, and then left.

The fourth day, he looked tired. He paused long enough to inform Billy that it would only take the rest of the day to finish up, and then he’d be gone. His gaze lingered a moment, and then he was gone up the stairs to the office. 

And, as much as he wanted to push a little more, he steered everyone clear.

Unfortunately, by the time he was leaving--well after close and nearing 10pm--the suit looked broken. Which Billy hadn't actually, _entirely_ , meant to do. He'd been an asshole, certainly, but he didn't like anyone looking quite _that_ beat down. _Especially_ when he didn’t do it on purpose. _That_ day, at least.

He sighed, quickly plated up a few cookies, and pressed it to Harrington’s chest as he passed.

Harrington caught the plate on reflex, face going confused and frowny as he took it. “What is--”

Billy rolled his eyes and steered the man into a chair. “Sit. Eat something. Relax. Celebrate, you're all done.”

“I-I really shouldn't. I should let you get home.”

“No. This is your reward. You put up with my shit for a whole week and survived,” Billy said, sternly. “Eat the cookies.”

“I don't like sweets--”

“Bullshit. Everyone loves cookies,” Billy interrupted. “Eat a cookie.”

Steve sighed and pushed the plate away, “ _I_ don't like cookies.”

“Oh, come on. Didn’t you ever have one of those days?” He smirked a little, but he didn’t put any real heat into it. “A no-good, _rotten_ day? Didn’t your mom ever make you some cookies? Bundle you up with a hug and a glass of cold milk, and make it all better with _cookies_?”

Steve scoffed, head shaking. “No. My mom didn’t bake. Didn’t even _cook_ , if I’m honest.”

“No?” And _that_ was sad, if he ever heard it. “Not even those pre-mixed doughs?”

“No. The only cookies I ever had were store-bought.” He shrugged, “Never liked cookies.”

Billy narrowed his eyes. If he could fix anything, he could fix the slump to Harrington’s shoulders. “Well you’ve had a bad day. A bad _week_ , really,” he said, and pushed the plate back toward the suit. “I know, I made sure of it.”

He chuckled, and glanced away. His cheeks went a little pink.

“Eat. A fucking. Cookie.”

Steve gave him a narrow-eyed look, but he was amused. He nudged the plate away, but the distance was getting shorter. “You're bossy.”

“I am, but I'm just as good at my job as you are,” Billy said and nudged the plate again. “Eat the cookie.”

Steve glowered at him for a long moment before sagging, all the fight leaving him. “ _Fine_ ,” he grumbled, picking up one of the warm cookies. He gave Billy a final unimpressed look, before taking a bite.

Billy had known Steve was attractive, even all crisp and clean and _boring_. But the way his eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, the soft moan and satisfied sigh. The way the tense, rigid planes of his face _relaxed_ into soft, boyish curves. The bourbon brown of his eyes, as they blinked up at Billy, pupils wide in the low light. The faint blush of his cheeks. The pink of his tongue as it peeked out to swipe a smudge of melted chocolate from his plumb lip.

He was attractive the moment he walked into the shop, but fuck if he wasn't _stunning,_ sitting there in the dim light.

“Oh, _wow._ ”

Billy swallowed, tried to sound composed. “I did tell you.”

Steve chuckled, shooting him a wry look. “You did tell me, cocky bastard.”

Billy smiled, feeling a bit of warmth pooling in his gut. “Eat your cookies, you earned them. Do you want some milk?”

“No, no, I'm keeping you--”

“Steve, princess, shut the fuck up.” Billy threw him a small wink, to soften the admonishment, as he turned back toward the kitchen. 

Obediently, Steve stayed put.

He returned with two glasses of milk and another plate of cookies, this time an assortment of those that hadn't been bought throughout the day. Pistachio shortbreads, stuffed with dried cranberries and white chocolate, and dark chocolate crinkles, peanut butter drops and _soft_ , sweet sugar cookies. As an afterthought, he’d grabbed some folded cardboard and a sharpie.

“Oh, no, this is too much--”

“How many times do I have to tell you to shut up before you listen?” Billy asked, dunking a cookie as he continued to stare Steve down. “You survived me. And you look enough like shit that _even I_ feel bad. So relax, eat some cookies and tell me about yourself.”

For a few moments, Steve stared him down, lower lip caught between his teeth. There was a small furrow between his brows, and Billy longed to smooth it away. But then he breathed out a tiny laugh and reached from a crinkle.

Steve, it turned out, was a huge nerd. Though he blamed it on babysitting a ragtag bunch of geeks through high school, Billy could tell he liked that Dungeons & Dragons shit. Max, at least, could blame it on _a boy_ ; Steve had no excuse. He liked movies, though he refused to call himself a nerd about it. Said his best friend was the movie nerd, she just dragged him along to the arty theatres and showings. Said he liked comics, but it may have just been a result of getting Stockholm Syndromed by the kids he babysat.

Billy, despite his best efforts, found himself sharing more than he would normally. Stories from growing up, baking with his mother. Learning how to knead dough correctly, how to make a proper macaron, how to make croissants just _do that_. About old cars and travelling far and wide, and taking strange odd jobs to pay his way from place-to-place. About giving it all up to cross the country and take over his mother's bakery after she passed, even though he hadn’t seen her since he was twelve.

Steve spoke about his father’s ideas, of him taking over the family business. Of his mother’s silent disappointment, never quite approving of what he _wanted_ to do, let alone what he ended up doing. 

He told Steve about his mom _leaving him_ , about Neil and Susan, about bonding with Max over baking bread. About teaching her how to throw a proper right hook, to protect herself if she ever had to. About teaching her how to make proper gingerbread for her first Christmas with her boyfriend.

And Steve listened when he spoke, eyes big and intent, cookie crumbs dusting his salmon and cream paisley tie. 

“Do you like the cookies?” Billy asked, meeting Steve’s gentle gaze. Outside, the rain was slow and cool. 

“I do.” Steve’s smile was small and sweet, eyes never once straying. Then his expression turned a little teasing, “Thank you for making me eat them.”

Billy shook his head, chuckling. “You’re welcome, pretty boy.”

He opened his mouth, and was cut off by an alarm from his wrist. “Shit, it's late,” Steve muttered, yawning. “I should head home.”

"Here, let me pack up some cookies for you to take home," Billy murmured, folding out the box he'd been absently doodling on as they spoke.

“No, no, that’s fine.” 

Billy rolled his eyes and sauntered back toward the display cases. “ _No, no, it’s fine_ ,” he teased. Steve liked the chocolate chip ones best, the chocolate crinkles and snickerdoodles taking a close second. “It’s just cookies, pretty boy. I can’t put them out tomorrow, you’re really doing _me_ a favour.” He dropped in a few chocolate salted halva hamantaschen into the box. He needed a better taste-tester; Tommy and Carol were boring, Heather said everything was good--if she got free samples, _of course_ \--and Max said everything was bad simply on principle.

“I’d love to, but I can’t,” Steve said, shaking his head, his expression rueful. “I--it constitutes a gift. I-I shouldn’t have even had those other ones.”

“Well, _I’m not gonna tell_ ,” Billy teased, wandering back out from behind the counter. 

“No, I-I know, but if you did--”

“I won’t.”

“But if you _did_.”

He scoffed, “Who am I gonna call?” Billy felt that bead of anger he’d spent so many years repressing slowly swell in his chest. “You think I’m gonna rat _you_ out?”

And then he got silence in return. 

“You think--”

“I’ll buy them,” Steve said, cutting him off. “I’ll, uh, be happy to buy the cookies. That-that way there are no issues.” And his expression was open and so, _so_ reasonable. Like he hadn’t just kicked Billy in the emotional balls.

Billy swallowed down the biting anger and turned away. “You should go home, Steve.”

“What?” Steve blinked at him, confused. He paused, hand already on the wallet in his back pocket. “No, it really isn’t a big deal, I--”

“ _Go home,_ Steve,” he snapped, firmer. 

The other man flinched a little, but nodded. 

In the doorway, Steve hesitated. He looked _pathetic_ , and Billy _ached_. But then he just nodded, eyes glittering and wet, and pushed out of the shop. 

Billy expected him to hesitate beneath the awning, just long enough to unfold his umbrella, but he didn’t. He let the door fall closed behind him and stepped out into the gentle rain. His hair soaked through first, almost immediately. Then the baby blue of his rumpled shirt turned navy, dark and wet, beneath the rose gold of the streetlights. 

In the Hallmark movie, that was where the Big City Career Woman meant well, put her foot entirely in it and Small Town Love Interest reacted badly as they moved the shitty, stale plot into the third act. Except that Steve did _nothing_ wrong and Billy had a temper that tended to get the best of him. And he was an asshole. And an _idiot_.

As Billy watched Steve's hunched form walk slowly down the street, he regretted getting so angry. If he thought about it, it wasn't as if Steve had been out of line. Billy was just an asshole who liked to stick it to authority. He didn't actually want Steve _fired_.

He sighed, thunked his forehead against the door a few times, and turned away to begin cleaning up. 

On the counter, next to the register, sat a pastry box, the one he'd drawn skulls and guitars and his number on. It went into the trash just as easy as anything else.

  
  
  


As the weeks passed, Billy continually found his thoughts drifting toward Steve.

He spent a great deal of time wondering what would have happened, had he just let Steve say goodnight. If he hadn’t made a big deal out of something so simple. If he’d said it all with _words_ instead of trying for subtlety. 

He entertained ideas of tracking Steve down, apologizing the way he deserved. 

He tested more recipes than he knew what to do with, becoming more and more acquainted with distraction techniques than he wanted to admit. But, if nothing else, the bakery had become far more popular than ever in the weeks after he’d kicked Steve out.

The biggest distraction came in the form of watching Tommy and Carol pretend they weren't going to reconcile after their most recent breakup. It was cute, really. It was a dance they were all used to, but it never got old. 

But even _that_ wasn't much of a distraction. They'd both been dicks to Steve as well, but Billy never realized it was because _they knew him_. They'd gone to high school with him, apparently. Called him all kinds of names, talked all kinds of gossip, and it took getting them _drunk off their asses_ before they gave any real reason _why_.

To hear stories of _King Steve_ and the monsters of Hawkins, Indiana. About someone named Barb, whose death Steve never quite recovered from. About heartbreak and ass beatings and a family that never seemed to come around. 

His friends were _dumb_ , it turned out. Holding onto pointless, teenage grudges like that. 

But it _did_ help him understand Steve _The Hair_ Harrington just a little bit better.

And he hated himself just a little more for doing _nothing_ but watching him go.

  
  
  


Steve had been standing across the street, arms laden down with _something_ for about two minutes. Billy had valiantly pretended not to notice, taking his time cleaning the kitchen. And then the tables. Then the register. Then he swept, and Steve _still_ hadn't made up his damn mind. 

Across the street, Steve's back was to him. His head was bowed, shoulders tense. Steve looked like he was waffling, still. He didn't even look up as Billy stepped outside and locked up.

Didn't move as Billy started toward him, crossing the deserted street. Didn't appear to hear Billy _at all._

When Billy was about eight feet away, Steve seemed to finally come to a decision, turning to head back toward the bakery. 

He wasn't quite as put together as usual, didn't look like someone come to audit Billy's punk ass. He was in jeans, form-fitting and distracting. He had on an oversized, blue sweater instead of a jacket, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his slim wrists. A pale pink polo collar peeked out of the stretched neck of the sweater.

Billy wanted to run his fingers through that stupid hair and pull him in. 

He stared back at Billy, eyes wide and glittering in the streetlights. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Steve blinked at him, exhaled another soft, “Hey.”

Billy bit his cheek to keep from smiling. Instead he watched on as Steve nervously twitched. He nodded toward the package in Steve's arms, “What have you got there?”

Steve swallowed, loud enough to be heard in the still night. “Flowers,” he said, quietly. 

And Billy blinked at the box, at the little packages lined up neatly. Nondescript paper wrapped packages, color coded and neatly labeled. He looked back up at Steve, a little kick in his gut as he met those pretty brown eyes. Not roses or daisies or lilies. Not _flowers._

“I, um, brought you flours,” Steve said, voice going soft and quiet as he looked back down.

He stepped close enough to read the neatly printed labels. Packages just large enough to make a small batch of whatever he could think of. Teff and peanut and amaranth, fufu and spelt and buckwheat--and the entire flat made a loud _slap_ on the sidewalk as Billy dropped it to the ground and pushed Steve up against the closest wall. 

And, God, how long had he been thinking about kissing this frustrating man. About cradling that lovely, strong jaw in the palms of his hands. Threading fingers into his thick, ridiculous hair. Drinking in his breathy, needy moans, and licking into the slick heat of his mouth. 

Steve made a small, needy, sound deep in his throat, hands coming up to clutch at Billy’ chest and waist and shoulders and anywhere else his nervous hands could reach.

Steve tasted like coffee and blueberry muffins, bitter and hot and _slick_ against Billy’s tongue.

He pulled back, panting, just enough to see lashes fluttering against blushing cheeks.

“You're a _menace_ ,” Billy grumbled, pressing a short kiss to Steve's cheek, then forehead and nose and the corner of his mouth and every bit of skin he could find. “I was _flirting_. I wrote my fucking number on that goddamn box of cookies. I was going to take you out and romance the hell out of you.”

Steve tried to follow Billy’ lips, still making those sweet, needy sounds. He let out a string of pleading _yeses_ and _okays_ and _yes, yes anything, pleases._

“I'm cooking you dinner,” Billy said, decisively, pulling back entirely. “Right now, tonight--”

“Today, technically.”

“Don't be pedantic,” Billy chided, but grinned, swiping a thumb over the man's cheek. “I'm making you dinner _tonight_. Okay?”

Steve nodded, smile wide. “Yeah, okay.”

Later, he _really would_ cook them dinner. Probably. He’d be a cheeseball and light a candle just to make Steve laugh. Feed him messy forkfuls of spaghetti just to lick the sauce off his chin. Billy would pull him close, apologize for being a dick. _Really_ apologize and, for once, _mean it._

But that would be later. 

For the moment, though, he just matched Steve’s grin and shoved him back up against the wall. Those sweet sounds from Steve’s throat sounded so much sweet when muffled against Billy’s lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments encouraged. Validate me.
> 
> also i made a [tumblr](https://nagdabbit.tumblr.com/) that i won't use much but can be bothered there


End file.
